Salty

Let's get this out of the way first - Baby still not here.

Not going to launch into the drama of the last few weeks, but suffice to say, we are still waiting...

And waiting...

And growing....

And by growing, I mean me getting fatter. The kid? Eh, not so much. Still a bit on the small side.

I'm now one day short of 39 weeks.

Or by my count, two solid months of zero physical activity, peppered with on-and-off-and-on (again) bedrest. One moment the kid's head is all but hanging out and we are bags-packed-and-headed-to-the-hospital, and the next he/she has crawled right back up and nestled into the apparently-welcoming envionment of my womb, with talk turned to being in this for the long haul.

You can imagine how thrilled this makes me.

Yeah, I am a straight peach to deal with at this point.

In fact, I was trying to post pictures of my baby shower (coincidently held the exact day I hit nine months so you can get the full impact of my ginormously swollen body and face) for this post, but iPhone is being a bitch and not letting me transfers pics.

Or something.

Who cares.

I can't be bothered to figure it out, so I have to wait until my husband wakes up to do it for me.

Just like he now has to do everything for me: tie my shoes, cook my food, pull me off the couch (and out of the car),and deal with my bed-rattling snoring.

And endless complaining. Oh, it is endless.

I have ZERO patience for literally anything at this point (including work - it's like I am bothered when people call me during the day and I have to problems-solve some issue, gosh-forbid it breaks up my naptime), as my kid's foot has been stuck in my right rib for about five days, and I haven't sleep adequately in about two months.

Have I mentioned that my belly button (like my kid) can't decide what it wants to do, so it hasn't quite popped out, yet it isn't a regular in-ie anymore. No, my belly button looks like a clay-mation volcano, second only in nastiness to my cartoonish, National Geographic situation going on with my boobs.

Sit with that image for a minute if you can.

So in the absence of anything more entertaining (like those fucking pictures), here's a little something I learned this past week:

Eat too many Oreos and you risk not taking a crap for three days.

You're welcome.

Everything I Have To Say....

...is usually reserved for Facebook these days.

Hence, the dust bunnies on El Bloggo.

But since many of my recent communications with my family follow along the lines of, "Dude, are you dead, or did you just forget you have a blog?" I decided maybe it's time to check into my little space in the blogosphere.

So what follows is a mash up of some recent (okay, maybe kinda old) pictures that I have frankly been too spankin' lazy to post.

Welcome to Hawaii.
End of our first day. I seem to be contemplating either:

a. How small we humans are when compared to the massive world and ocean.

b. How lucky I am to be married to my man.

c. How on earth I plan to organize all those grill pans, fry pans, tupperware, dishes, flatware, and vases we received in out tiny apartment.

d. How to get my bowels to open up after a 9-hour flight.

Malasados. Known to us mortals as a big donut-like puff covered in sugar and served hotly fried. As my husband says, "They're stick-your-dick-in-it-good." I apparently preferred to just give myself a facial with them instead.
Guess the stress of leisure reading was simply too much for my mind to handle. Thus, I must rest. And tan.
Hands off ladies. He's a married man.
Mr. Merman.
"How come I can't see any fish? What? Oh, my face has to go IN the water."
Me in my Donna Reed/Mad Men 60s-style dress at dinner.

Oh, and my husband was there, too.
I had to burn off my two plates of luau pork somehow, and what better way of doing it than dancing on stage in front of hundreds of people we don't know, and having the moment captured by forcing the strange, old British man who has the misfortune of being seated next to me during a buffet take our picture.
As any bride will tell you, I didn't eat and barely had a drink for the entire duration of the wedding. So when it came cake time, you know I knocked over the flower girl and lept over tables to get to my slice - white cake with THICK layers of fudge and Bailey's Irish Cream, then smothered in buttercream.

I know, right?!?!

I'll pause while you go take an insulin shot.

(Pause)

So imagine my horror when I stood to talk to Cheese's sister and friend for a split second (for a conversation the revolved soley around the shape and quantity of my boobies/cleavage), and my cake was stripped out from underneath my nose. Needless to say, this Cake Whore complained about all the way until we got home from the honeymoon the following Monday.

But leave it to my honey to welcome me home from work on Tuesday with a mini-wedding cake, and a card that read, "Every bride should have her cake and eat it too."

From Cake Binge to Fitness - About two weeks later, I went on the Pumpkin Ride with my sister Devin and friend Mark. Look closely and you can see the remenents of the Second Wedding Cake stuck right there to my hips. Yeah, right...over...there.... Sure was nice of Devin to help me hide the plump with her bike.

Sweet girl.
So I repaid her by laughing and taking pictures when she fell off her bike.

Heck, I'm laughing even now as I look at this.

But she recovered well, yes?
Sweet reward.
No post is complete without some shout-out to my littlest nephew, Aiden.

It's okay to admit you just want to eat up his face.
Even when he gets caught red-handed making poopies.
And if her hair wasn't enough to give myself whiplash with my eye-rolling, we now have Ms. Suri in her heels.

Yeah, because that's what make sense in this world.

A 3-year-old in heels.

Nuthin' weird about that at aaaaaaall......

This Is What It Looks Like When Your Life Is Boring

Don't have a lot to say, except this:

1. My hands smell like maple syrup, but I didn’t eat any pancakes today. Hmmm…but me likey.

2. Since I didn’t mention it, it was probably assumed that Megathon was put on hold. True, it did not happen this weekend. With vacation, and then being consumed by work, I didn’t have time to make my medal (but alas! It will be made this week!). Also, and more importantly, I was a wee bit delinquent on my runs while on vacation (what with all the potential muggings by naked people, I simply couldn’t take that risk – I mean, the last thing I needed was to be just running along, and get bopped over the head by a rogue boobie). So Megathon will be in full effect on Sunday. More info coming soon….(and yes, Captain Cactus, I am holding you to your promise of running the half, my friend of the north)

3. I don’t know what it looks like where you live, but gas here is 3.08, and to us Chicagoans, that’s just as good as FREE at this point. Good thing too, because the gas hike was really cramping all the drive-bys, cruisings, and joy riding that I was so fond of doing. Guess I can put those Vespa plans on hold. Let’s start wasting some gas, people!

4. On tonight’s news, I saw that today in Chicago, people dressed their pets in costumes and had a parade. See! I didn’t even have to stay in Key West to see dogs in a parade! (ba dum bum!)

5. My man’s gone back on the road until mid-November, and you know what that means, right? Yeah, me neither. But it is awfully quiet here, and I have finally managed to air the fart stink out of the couch and bed sheets. Wish.I.Was.Kidding.

6. Why do people who have plastic surgery think that no one can tell? I have that show, "Dr. 90210" on in the background while I work right now, and this really young girl with HUGE new boobs, was all like, "I think it looks really natural, like, if you didn't know me before, you would never know I had a boob job."

Uuuhh...

Yeah.

Yeah, we would.

Because if your a natural girl and have boobs the size of a small child swinging from your chest, those things are going to hang LOW. And they bounce when you run, too.

Fake boobs?

Not so much.

Or at least hers didn't when she was running around the pool.

Man, boobs have been making quite an appearance on this blog lately, yeah?

Okay, for the next few days we are going boob-free.

That's that. Back to work.

Strip Clubs

Yes, that is what this post is about.

Here’s the thing – I just don’t get them.

Now, I am not the type girlfriend that would tell my BF not to go. Yes, we’ve had the conversation, what with the Vegas bachelor parties looming in the near future. And yes, I would rather eat a poop-and-mayo sandwich then think about some naked lady rubbing her ta-tas in my BFs face. But hey – he’s not getting a handy from them under the cocktail table, so what can I say?

All I am saying is that I simply don’t understand the point of them.

See, with porn, we all know there is a purpose and end goal there. Naked ladies + sex = well, you know.

But with strip clubs, you see the naked ladies, but there is no sex, and certainly no “pay off,” so to speak.

I mean, you can’t even touch them.

And according to Cheese, seeing the naked ladies is not even arousing or erotic. They are simply, well, naked ladies. Some giving you drinks, some giving you lap dances.

So what’s the point?

I am honest-to-god asking this question.

No judgment, just trying to understand. Like I said, I am not giving my BF limits on going or not going – I just want to know the allure of it.

Moreover, whenever I see depictions of strip clubs on the tv (as I have never actually been to one), all I see is the adult version of little girls who have been sexually abused at some point in their life. And holy crap is that sad enough to make me cry in my Raisen Bran.

How do guys not see that?

So guys – help me out. Comment anonymously if you need to. And ladies – any of you been to one? Why? What was that like?


Blast the Fat
On a completely unrelated note, The Biggest Loser is on tonight!!

And to celebrate, I let Troy kick my ass on the bike again today. Sure, it was a little better than yesterday’s beating, but my gosh. I was one ladder set away from shoving his little stopwatch up his screaming pie hole.

I think to change it up, I am going to do this DVD (“No Slackers Allowed,” for Anonymous who asked) twice a week, and then on Friday I will treat myself to the other one, “Suffer-rama”.

Uh yeah – I just re-read the sentence and realized I was considering a 45-minute workout called Suffer-rama a “treat.”

I also have a three-hour number, “Tough Love,” but I can’t imagine I’ll be doing that one anytime soon.

Who thinks of these names, for gosh sake?

Frankly, I am a little scared of Tough Love - I never tried it before, and if Troy can mutilate me in 45 minutes, I can't imagine what disaster three hours at his mercy would bring.

Now, Anonymous suggested “Mental Toughness,” which made me wonder what other people are using. Does anyone else do Spinnervals? There’s like 100 of them, and I want to know which ones are good.

And with that, folks, I am off to babysit for the Mayor. YAY!!!!

Winners Never Cheat

And cheaters never win.

And if you had a chance to see the women's gymnastics final, then you know what I am talking about.

I don't think I breathed the entire time I watched the all-around compitition.

Fuck all that stuff I said about cheering for China and their 9-year-old asses because I felt bad for them.

I don't feel bad for cheaters.

I wanna punch them in their mosquito-bite boobies.

Maybe four years from now, China can round up a couple of 4-year-olds and try to pass them off to beat the US.

'Cause they didn't beat us this year.

HAHAHAHA!!

I think I am starting to take these Olympics WAYYY too personally.

But on a postive note:

Now the Olympics are over for these girls, they can get back to trying to be normal teens - hanging with friends, dating, menstruating.

Throw in some teen acne, a training bra, and a pube or two, and it's a brand new world for them!

Ya almost wanna shove a beer in one hand, a tampon in the other, slap 'em on the back and proclaim, "Welcome to the real world!"

And I gotta give credit to Shawn Johnson for staying so poised - talk about the pressure of a country on her shoulders. She looked like she wanted to just sob, but she was so solid.

On a seperate note - how come none of our athletes sing the anthem? Or they look like they try, but they don't know the words.

Just wondering.

Okay, time for more coffee and more work.

P.S. Your guilt worked - Cheese posted.

Post #2 - Boobs aka Triathlon Giveth and Triathlon Taketh Away

So I noticed the other day that my strapless bra fell off.

Like, slide right down my belly.

Now, one with a rationale mind might think, “Oh, my boobs must have gotten smaller.”

Not me.

I blamed the bra.

“Oh, it must be stretched out…by my enormous jublies.”

So today I took myself bra shopping.

I grabbed a couple of D’s, and threw in some C’s - you know, just in case training really has taken a toll that I was not aware of.

When the D’s left room for a whole separate watermelon, I reluctantly tried on the C’s.

No matter how much I hoisted, pulled, twisted, adjusted – the suckers just would not fill the cups.

So I did what I am best at –

Turned on the denial, and bought myself some ice cream.

And then bitched up a storm.

Seriously.

Seriously.

A B-cup?

Not since the 5th grade had I ever sunk so low.

And it’s crazy – for as long as I could remember, I have lamented my large boobies– couldn’t wear the cute little tops, had to buy the orthopedic-looking bras – you know the drill, my large-breasted friends.

But now, all I can think of is that it’s not fair.

The whole episode trigger a memory of a scene from one of my favorite movies – “Beautiful Girls.” If you’re familiar with the movie, it’s the scene where Rosie O’Donnell give Timothy Hutton and Matt Dillon a tongue lashing for their love of all things Playboy and airbrushed.

She says that, in summary, God is a fair man – he gives heavier women big boobs, and skinny bitches small boobs.

And every time I watch this, me and my double D’s would scream at the tv, “Hell YEAHH!!!! Right on!!!”

Then I’d high-five each boob and eat a cheeseburger.

But now I’m like, “Hey - WTF?”

Okay, fine – I do work out a lot. And yes, my body has changed as a result.

But if God was going to take away my basooms, why’s he stop there?

What? He can’t see the sizable ass and hips from Heaven?

Doubtful.

The Man, I am told, can see all.

Shit’s not right, man.